Notes from the Underground
by ScrimshawPen
Summary: Historians in the twenty-third century examine life in Vault 13 for the generations following the Great War. What's left for them to study? Journal entries, holotapes, and Vault-Tec records. This three-part account follows a single line of descent, beginning with a teenage girl in 2077 and ending with her great-grandson Albert Cole, AKA "the Vault dweller."
1. The Life of Alia Jameson

_The following documents and records were retrieved from Vault 13 by archivist Jamilyn Steele shortly after the Followers of the Apocalypse took possession of the vault in 2262. They are preserved here as a written artifact of the years immediately following the Great War._

 _We have always assumed (without properly questioning the assumption) that the first generation to grow up after the bombs understood even better than we what humanity had gambled and lost in the Great War, The reality I attempt to show in my book, however, is that they were men and women as limited and short-sighted as those alive today. They neither accepted responsibility, nor fully understood their obligation to look forward and do better._

 _This chapter, however, contains the epistolary autobiography of an innocent - a girl born just fifteen years before the War to a military family. Her account of events, jejune and selfish though it sometimes is, is a genuine reaction to the traumatic shift that has shaped us all and is therefore worthy of empathy and study._

* * *

10/19/77, Concord

Dear Diary,

Mom got a call from Aunt Helen tonight. They don't think Marcia is going to make it. The accident crushed her chest and and did something to her brain. The doctors are saying she'll never wake up! I always told her I was going to get my license when I turned 15, just like she did this summer, but now I'm scared to even think about driving.

Mom's talking about "saying goodbye" and "packing a dress for the funeral" now. I can't do this. She's my only cousin, and I can't imagine her dead. I was going to visit them over Christmas and we were all going to climb Mt. Whitney together. This feels unreal.

Uncle Hank is getting sent home from Anchorage tomorrow. I wish Dad could come, too. I don't want to go to California without him - it's all the way on the the other side of the country. But he has to stay on base in Alaska.

I got yelled at when I asked who was going to feed Rowdy while we're gone. "Family's more important than dogs." Probably we'll leave him with grandma, even though she hates animals.

Maybe I'll wake up and this will all have been a dream… if not, we're flying into Lone Pine Airport tomorrow.

Current Mood: sad.

~Alia

* * *

10/22/77, Lone Pine, CA

Dear Diary,

Fuck. Today was awful. I always wanted to meet Marcia's friends, but not like this. She died before we even got here, and poor Aunt Helen and Uncle Hank had to figure out her fucking funeral. Mom helped, but still. I could hear them crying in their room last night. Aunt Helen looked… like a ghost today. A ghost in a black dress. Marcia looked perfect - they fixed her head, put her in the dress she was going to wear to the Winter Formal. She could have been sleeping if I hadn't known she was dead. It was the saddest, most horrible thing I've ever seen.

Uncle Hank wore his uniform to the funeral. Every time I looked over at him, I thought it was Dad for a second. They look so much alike, even though they're not twins - Henry is two years older. I caught him looking at me and crying… I wonder if I remind him of Marcia. Maybe we shouldn't have come. I don't know how people survive stuff like this. I swear, I'm never going to have a husband or kids or anything, because I don't want to lose someone I love.

I want to go home, but Mom says we have to stay until Monday. She says we're going to help Helen go through Marcia's stuff. Tomorrow is Saturday, and we're going to go scatter her ashes on her favorite hiking travels with some of her friends. I still can't believe she's gone.

Current mood: see last entry.

~Alia

* * *

VAULT-TEC RECORD FOR JAMESON, HENRY P.

PLACES RESERVED IN VAULT 13: 3 (MILITARY WAIVER)

SELF (ADULT MALE, B. 01/02/2040)

SPOUSE (ADULT FEMALE, B. 11/29/2041)

DEPENDENT CHILD (ADOLESCENT FEMALE, B. 07/29/2062)

LUGGAGE NOT TO EXCEED ONE (1) PERSONAL BAG EACH.

* * *

11/30/2077, Vault-fucking-13

Dear Diary,

I haven't been able to focus, write, or even think for a month now. Just opening my journal and seeing the last entry was too hard. It's a big, fat reminder that Mom's not here. That she and Dad are probably dead. But I'm glad I brought it, I guess. It's like the only thing I have from before, except for the clothes I was wearing… that I'm not allowed to wear anymore.

I hate this vault suit. I hate the vault. I wish Aunt Helen and Uncle Henry hadn't listened to Mom when she begged them to take me with them. To put me in Marcia's spot. She was crying when she pushed me forward. The soldiers wouldn't let her watch me through the fence, but forced her away.

I miss my family. I miss Rowdy. I don't know who starting launching missiles or why, but they killed almost everybody and destroyed everything I cared about and I hate them. I hope they're dead too.

The Overseer says that school starts tomorrow for everybody under 18. I don't know if I'm ready, but I guess it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.

-Alia

PS: Uncle Hank says my birthday has to be the same as Marcia's now, since I took her spot in the vault. Because I'm "ADOLESCENT FEMALE, B. 07/29/2062," not Alia anymore. He says it probably wouldn't matter - especially a few years from now, if we end up staying that long - but for now we're hiding that I'm not their real daughter. My birthday is actually December 10th. I'm going to be 15, and I definitely won't be getting my license.

* * *

12/10/2077, Living Quarters

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me… happy birthday dear A-li-a… happy birthday to me.

Well, it's almost midnight now and it looks like Helen and Hank forgot. I don't blame them. We're not a real family, anyway. She's a ghost who works as a nurse in the clinic and he's a ghost who works in security. Neither of them talk to me much. They wish I was Marcia and I wish I was too. Then I'd still have parents.

School is boring and there's only about six kids close to my age. I can't wait until I'm 18 and I'll get to work full-time instead _and_ get my own living quarters. There's a lot of unused space because not everybody on the list showed up to take their place in the vault and I might get a whole family unit to myself. Why the hell couldn't the people waiting outside have come in then, huh?

Current mood: mad.

~Alia

* * *

05/16/2078, Cafeteria

Overseer Childers just walked up and asked why I was wasting paper and I told him to fuck off, that this was my journal. I'm afraid he'll have someone take it away from me. I'm going to hide it under my mattress when I get home today.

The food sucks here.

Aunt Helen's going to have a baby. She told me this morning. I blurted out that I thought she was too old, and she looked like she was going to cry. I feel bad and I know I need to apologize but, really, isn't 36 too old?

Current mood: guilty.

~Alia

* * *

10/23/2078, Vault 13

We had a sort of assembly today with everybody out in the main concourse. It was supposed to be a memorial and a re-dedication to the "principles of the vault," whatever that means. I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help crying my eyes out when I heard other people talking. It made everything feel fresh and horrible all over again. I've started to realize that we might never leave the vault, and I think my GOAT test next month might just assign me the job of "local crazy person," because that's how I feel right now about spending my whole life here.

Aunt Helen's getting really big. She says that if it's a girl they'll name it after my mother and me: Amy Alia Jameson. If it's a boy, they'll name it after my dad, Thomas. Thomas Henry. Uncle Hank and I have been talking about him a lot lately. We both really miss him, and I've enjoyed the stories he's been telling me about their life on base when they were stationed together.

The kids here really aren't too bad. We were all pretty much in shock for the first six months or so, but this is slowly starting to feel normal. The oldest boy in my class, Lionel Brown, has been really nice to talk to about family and pets and stuff. The only animals we have in the vault are tilapia, and you just can't love a tilapia. I miss Rowdy. Lionel left two cats behind when his family evacuated, so he gets that. I like him a lot.

~Alia Penelope Jameson

~Alia Penelope Brown

~Mrs. Alia P. Brown

* * *

07/29/2079, Living Quarters

Happy fake birthday to me!

The bright side to having Marcia's birthday is that I'm 17 now, at least on paper, and I get more responsibilities and a little less school. I'm training as a nutritionist (thank you, GOAT exam) and that means I spend a lot of time in the kitchens learning how to make boring food - mostly vegetables - a little tastier. It's kind of fun.

My baby cousin, Amy, is about six months old and she is so cute. Aunt Helen and Uncle Hank have woken up since she was born. She hasn't replaced Marcia any more than I could, but she's made them really happy. I'm glad for them.

Lionel and I are dating. He's really smart and when he turns 18 - next month - he'll be apprenticing in the engineering department. I hope he'll still hang out with a kid like me when he's an _official_ grown-up. Heh.

We've been down here almost two years. I find myself forgetting the details of stuff like shopping with friends, being outside, wearing clothes that aren't vault suits, etc. I hope I can remember all of that long enough to tell my kids about it someday. Does it matter? Maybe not. But I want them to know that life hasn't always been like this.

Current mood: optimistic?

~Alia

* * *

VAULT-TEC RECORDS

RECORD OF MARRIAGE

LIONEL G. BROWN WED ALIA P. JAMESON ON 8/5/2080.

* * *

3/17/2088, Living Quarters

Dear Diary,

I found this when I was cleaning our shelves to make room for the kids' toys. The "writing" part of me has mostly disappeared in the years since I graduated and got married - yes, I do keep a personal log on the main terminal, but it's not the same. Mostly notes from my work.

Most of the pages of this journal are still blank. It's painful to read the few entries I _did_ write down, but it's important that they remain. I think I'll pass this book on to my oldest daughter, Marcia, when she's 12 or so. I wish a wiser person than me could have recorded their thoughts of those early years - I'd like to read such a book. Lionel thinks deeply about things, but he doesn't commit those thoughts to anything so insecure as a journal.

For my last entry, here's a record of the important dates for our family thus far:

Lionel and I were married on August 5th, 2080. Almost 8 years now. I was so young then, but I don't regret it a bit.

Our first daughter, Marcia Leigh, was born on July 15th, 2082.

Our first son, Thomas Henry, was born on September 10th, 2083. He died the same day.

Our second daughter, Emily June, was born on April 22nd, 2085.

Our second son (and last child), Henry Thomas, was born on January 11th, 2088.

The future, our history, the protection that the vault gives us all… is for them. Our children. God protect them from an uncertain future.

Current mood: Content. Peaceful.

~ Alia Brown


	2. Words in the Walls: Marcia's Secret

_Vault-Tec! Of all of the architects of post-apocalyptic "America," this institution deserves the most credit for our survival - and, perhaps, the most censure for our broken social order and fractured identity. When we look at the powers and principalities of that bygone age - the pre-war governments and the scientists who served them, the corporations that made capital off of human misery and greed, the currents of racist nationalism underpinned by an educational system that undervalued critical thinking and empathy - we cannot help but say, again and again, "We would do things differently. Given a chance, we_ will _do better." To effect better choices than our predecessors, however, we need to understand our origins. We need to understand what our ancestors signed up for and what the "blueprints" handed to every Overseer did to their collective psyche - and to us in turn. What kind of damage did we inherit from the vault-dwellers? Have we fully escaped their social engineering, even now?_

 _The only way the authors of this book can make sense of Vault-Tec's costly and incomprehensible series of human experiments -_ see Appendix C for a semi-complete catalogue of known vaults _\- some diabolically cruel, many entirely fatal to its subjects, and others merely odd - is that the shadowy, vaguely government-aligned "they" behind Vault-Tec (i.e., those responsible for designing the experiments) did not fully credit the threat of nuclear annihilation, and perhaps expected to profit from the results of the experiments. It is equally obvious, however, that others within the company absolutely did believe in the danger, as evidenced by their successful construction of functional, self-contained systems that could - and did - survive the bombs._

 _Vault 13, the primary interest of this work thanks to the literary inclinations of some of its occupants, was "lucky" in that it was intended as one of several control groups. There was no twisted scheme to manipulate their social order, no poisons in their air or water supply, no artificial limitation on their growth, success, or survival. That their water purifier failed long before the two-hundred-year experiment had run its course is merely incidental._

 _We have passed briefly over the scant material remains from that first generation, as seen through the eyes of a young Alia Brown (née Jameson). We turn now to one of the first of the vault-born - Marcia Brown, who lived the entirety of her life within those walls, never experiencing any other existence firsthand. Fortunately for our book, she was a more prolific journal-writer than her mother, and preserved a number of imaginative and sometimes sobering meditations on paper. Unfortunately for our sanity and desire for a complete record, she addressed these to things, ideas, and (absent) people, tore the pages out, and then "posted" them to various nooks and crannies of the vault. Many - if not most - of these were doubtless found and disposed of long before our people redid the original flooring and repaneled the walls. Nevertheless, we do get a useful profile of ordinary life and vault culture from what survives of these peculiar documents, of which only a representative selection are recorded here_ (for access to all of the Jameson-Brown-Cole documents, the reader may submit their request to the resident archivist at Vault 13). _Most importantly, we learn - through Marcia's trials - the traits and values that Vault-Tec encouraged… and which ones they tried to stamp out._

 _The date of the first note is from her twelfth year (2094) and the last, written on a scrap of paper after a long hiatus, was from ten years later (2104), mere days before Vault-Tec records indicate the birth of her only child, a girl named Joan. The original diary_ (see Chapter One) _, with her mother's few pages preserved intact, remained secure in the family's possession, and was thus preserved for posterity._

 _In this chapter, we honor the memory of a woman who, had she been born in a different time and place, we would have been proud to welcome as a fellow Follower of the Apocalypse._

 _~ Introduction by Malachi Handel; documents selected and transcribed by Jamilyn Steele_

* * *

9/11/94

Dear Vault,

You made my mother cry today. Well, maybe not you, but the things that make you necessary. Many of the grown-ups are quietly unhappy, and their unhappiness trickles down to us sometimes. I would never have immagined [ _sic_ ] a life outside of your walls and low ceilings, but because my mom and dad say so, I know there used to be more. We have pictures in our schoolbooks and videos on the terminals that say so as well, but that's less real than their stories about going to birthday parties, throwing water balloons (what exactly are those?) at other children, and staying outside until dark to play in the sprinklers (more water games!). They tell so many stories, each as foreign and tantalizing as the last. And now _I_ have to feel sad about losing things I never had. Thanks guys.

Every year, we celebrate the day we came to the vault. That'll be next month. Only it's not really a celebration, but a massive funeral for the world. Only the kids have any fun - there's special food, no school, songs, and speeches - but even the little ones pick up on the mood. One of my earliest memories, from when I was three or four, is of standing next to Aunt Helen and my big cousin Amy, watching one of those speeches (mom was working in the kitchens that day, I think). I still remember Helen looking down at me, holding my hand (and Amy's too), and whispering while crying, "I'm so sorry, girls. I'm so sorry that you never had a chance." That stuck with me. It still does. I thought I _did_ have a chance, but maybe I don't.

What will October 23rd be like when it's only us who were born here left? Will we still bother to celebrate? To mourn? Or will we just let it die with the people who actually remember that stuff?

Between you and me, Vault, I'm not sure what we should do.

Until next time - don't go anywhere!

~ Marcia Brown

* * *

11/28/94

Dear Outside,

Me and the rest of my grade (that's a total of 4 people) are 12. We're old enough to learn the details of what they did to you in the War. Note that it's always "they," never "we." No guilt for us, teacher says; _we_ certainly didn't do anything as bad as all that. Neither did our parents, grandparents, aunts, or uncles: they were all honest, ordinary people just trying to live their lives. Back then, they had something called a "vote" - something we apparently don't need in our little community - but it was a useless defense against those on the outside who would do us harm. We don't really know who fired first, teacher admitted, but it was "probably" the enemy. America wouldn't have done something like that, she said. I don't know anything about America or China other than cold, bare facts, but I suspect that _both_ countries - and all of the countries in between - were mostly made up up "honest, ordinary people just trying to live their lives." People like us. People who kept on doing ordinary things, keeping their heads down, until their governments destroyed everybody.

Anyway, Outside, what's it like out there now? Our only external sensors that survived are limited to reading temperature. They say it was _very_ hot at first - hot enough to kill most plant and animal life - and then it was pretty cold for a while (years and years). Now it's warming up again, but the weather's different from what it used to be. Teacher says that our scientists think radiation will have done… things… to the plants and animals who survived the initial blast. Radiation lingers, too - it would hurt us if we tried to leave right now. That's what teacher says, but she won't say how long it'll take for above-ground to be safe again. And every time I ask, she changes the subject.

I'm guessing that means you and me won't ever meet. A pity. I would have liked to see a tree.

Bye for now.

~M.*

[* _Authors' note: While we can confirm her identity based on the handwriting, Marcia frequently uses initials or pseudonyms from this point onward - possibly because she'd already been punished for "wasting" paper or hiding notes in the walls.]_

* * *

[ _Authors' Note: No date. Based on the details and the relative level of writing, we estimate that she is about 13 at the time of this letter._ ]

Dear great-great-great-grandchild (if I ever have kids; if not, then you can be my niece or nephew),

Hello. How are you? I am fine. Let me tell you about a day in the vault. I got up. The hot water was out, so I only did a bit of a sponge bath. Do you have hot water - or clean water - wherever you are? You may not, so I won't complain. Breakfast was potato hash with some peppers and onions, cooked with a bit of vegetable oil. All of it - except for the salt, which we have massive stores of - is sourced straight from our hydroponics bays. Our menu is boring, but as mom says, it meets our nutritional needs. I wish I could try meat that wasn't just fish. I am thoroughly sick of fish.

School is supposed to be the same as it was before the war. This makes things feel strange sometimes, especially the patriotic elements - the pledge of loyalty, the flag in the corner of our classroom, the picture of President Davis on the wall. Why should we venerate the man who presided over our country's last days? Should we really consider ourselves Americans at all? The history we learn is selective, the books we read uncontroversial and none of them more recent than the 19th century. Our math and science at least appears unfiltered, but I'm not sure about anything anymore. My teacher does not like hard questions, by which she means questions that don't have black and white answers. Dad says I can bring those questions home to him, and we can talk about it together. I do.

Lunch is either fish and vegetables or vegetables and vegetables. Recess could be better - we have one hour in a single, large room to improve our "small and gross motor skills," stamina, and strength. This usually translates into playing small-sided games of soccer or basketball, though occasionally we jog up and down the corridors. Mom - that's my mom, and your great-great-great- _great_ -grandmother - says that recess used to be different, that it was _fun_. Do you go to school? I hope so. That would mean that things are normal for you, and that you can probably read well enough to understand this note.

In the evening, we spend time with our families. I have two younger siblings - that's Aunt Emily and Uncle Harry to you - and they're alright, especially now that Harry's been in school for a while and knows how to sit still for a game. Emily's the only person I've ever shown my writing to - I _would_ show mom, but I think it'd make her sad - but she doesn't really understand why I do it this way. That's alright. It's more for me anyway. And, I guess, for you, grandchild. Anyway, my family and I talk, play games, and occasionally watch a vid together. The lights go off at ten unless you have special permission from the Overseer (we don't), so that's when we all go to sleep.

We are safe but bored, educated but not challenged. Things could be worse, but I hope they aren't for you. On that note, I hope a hideously-mutated insect didn't eat you while you were busy looking at this.

Be careful out there.

Love,

Granny

* * *

4/1/97

[ _Authors' note: Based on this note, and the long gap, we infer that vault authorities uncovered a quantity of Marcia's notes from her mid-teenage years, traced them back to her, and meted out punishment to her over their content. There are actually_ many _like this from her in our archives, angry and bitter, but only two are preserved here in the interests of space._ ]

Dear Overseer,

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. If you find this one, just shove it up your ass, why don't you?

What I write in private, I don't scream from the rooftops, alright? There's nothing _wrong_ with anger, angst, and rebellion - it's developmentally appropriate and what's the worst I could do, anyway? Get pregnant at 16 like _your_ lovely daughter? Steal some noddy adult's liquor ration? Take a swim in the tilapia tank? Actually, that doesn't sound too bad… except that it risks our life and livelihood, and I'm not the sort of person who does that. I have the potential to be an excellent citizen, I'll have you know.

Sincerely,

Definitely-not-Marcia-Leigh-Brown

* * *

[ _Authors' note: We found this one inches from the one above, both rolled up and apparently inserted carefully into a pinhole on a load-bearing pylon in the cafeteria.]_

4/2/97

Dear Overseer,

If you find a note dated from yesterday, please be aware that was not me, but my secret, dark-hearted twin sister that my parents have kept hidden in the air ducts since birth.

I actually _love_ you and everything about living in this goddamned Vault, and I would certainly _never_ tell you to go fuck yourself.

Sincerely go fuck yourself,

~Marcia Leigh Brown

* * *

11/1/98

Dear Future Me,

Do you like being in charge of every tilapia in Vault 13 - possibly the last population of tilapia in the _world_? I hope the power hasn't gone to your head. Every speck of animal protein that this fine community gets will be processed by your capable hands. You've also got hundreds of ready-made friends - I've seen Old Man Dubrovhsky petting those finny little beasts. They love him, and always come to the surface when he draws near. He gives the biggest ones _names_. I wonder if he still eats them. If _you_ can still bring yourself to eat them after doing this for a few years.

After a week of training, I know what the job entails - scales, guts, and bones (fertilizer for our fine friends over in hydroponics), fish eggs, selective breeding, pH testing the water for a good balance… lots of messy, mostly solitary work. I guess it'll be alright. Work is work and it could be worse. A lot worse, especially considering how often Overseer Childers used to call me out for "anti-vault activities."

I had obviously hoped for something different… teacher, historian, scientist… I had excellent grades, you know. I can't help but think that there was something in my tests, my writing assignments (especially the off-the-record ones), my _personality_ that warned the review committee off of allowing me to be an "ideas" person, especially when it came to shaping impressionable children into upstanding vault citizens.

I don't think my answers on the GOAT exam meant anything at all. It all came down to how you played the game. Maybe you've gotten better at walking that line, dear me, but I still have a lot of learning to do. We'll warn our children to be more careful, won't we? If there _are_ any children - I'm an odd duck, and there are more women than men in my generation.

As a side note, I've tried to retrieve and destroy some of my more incendiary messages from their hiding places - especially from the past year - but I can't get to all of them. I'm sorry if my incautious pen has created more problems for you. Well. We can always plead insanity, can't we? I don't know of any other way to describe being 15. I won't write any more. I promise.

To the future!

~Marcia

* * *

[ _Author's note: It's truly a wonder we ever found this one - the last in our collection of Marcia's notes. It was written on the inside of a pre-war bubblegum wrapper in tiny letters, folded into a minuscule square, and then placed into the bolthole beneath a new-installed table leg, which was then screwed to the floor for well over a century - until we decided to refurbish the former tilapia lab. The unknown intern who found this document - and who had the presence of mind to recognize its value - deserves high praise.]_

August 30th, 2104

Dear Joan/Joseph,

Boy or girl, I'm not sure, but you are already loved. Me, your grandparents, your aunts and uncles, your cousins… none of us can wait to meet you. Your father is your father in terms of biology only - I've informed the doctor for the sake of your medical records. A closed genetic pool like ours can't really tolerate unknown paternity for obvious reasons. As you'll learn when you're older, it was the younger Stone brother - Matthew - but, seeing as he has a family of his own already, we're going to keep that under wraps for a while. I'm sorry for making your entrance into life more difficult than it should have been, but I can't regret you.

Baby, your mother was a low-key nonconformist, a rebel in thought and word only, but it was obvious enough to cause some problems. I'll raise you to think the things that I've only been able to whisper my entire life, but I'll also coach you to be more cautious than I was. Discretion is the better part of valor. Remember this: to preserve harmony, the Overseer is prepared to do a great deal more than merely stunting a young person's future. I have seen worse - much worse - happen to others. From your Aunt Helen's old Bible, "it's better for one person to die than for the whole community to perish." At least that's the idea, as hideous as it seems. Please don't become a scapegoat.

I have so much hope for you - that you'll live to see the Vault open and be a part of the generation that gets to reclaim the world outside. Most of all, though, I pray that you'll be curious, kind, and - most of all - _happy_. Maybe you'll even find someone that you don't mind sharing your life with, someone who sees things clearly.

This letter is probably ill-advised (all of my notes were), but I can't imagine that anybody will ever find it. If you _do_ find it, dear reader, please pass it on to my descendants if they live,* and don't hold them culpable for a lonely woman's ramblings. If you're reading this from beyond the veil of the world's eventual restart, then I hope this finds a kindred spirit in a time of new hope for humanity.

I've written all that I can in this confined space. Good-bye.

~Marcia Leigh Brown

[ _*We tried to fulfill this last request of hers, but could not discover any known living descendants of the famous "Vault Dweller," Marcia's only grandchild, as his line seems to have ended with the death of the "Chosen One" in 2260.]_


	3. Who Was Albert Cole?

"They want me to write my memoirs. Fine. I'll do it. But as the song goes, I'll do it my way. And I'm old enough that I will get my way." - The Wanderer (excerpt from _The Vault Dweller's Memoirs_ ).

* * *

 _Leo Tolstoy maligned the historians of his era as "deaf people who go on answering questions that no one has asked them," who persist in enumerating the minutiae of the effects without sufficiently accounting for the layered causes. He had a point: in the nineteenth century, they were struggling to describe what then appeared to be the (sometimes rocky) ascent of humanity without resorting to the language of divine intentionality._

 _We, of course, have no illusions about any force greater than collective human will, and know that progress is by no means inevitable. We accept that our survival is an accident that might be rendered meaningless at any point - a plague, another war, or a natural disaster could send us back to the dark ages at any time, or even wipe our species out. And yet we go on with our unsolicited answers, sifting through irrelevant details in search of something insightful, something usable for our future._

 _To return to the subject of this monograph - namely, the pre-NCR moral and intellectual backgrounds of the rebuilt West - every native-born citizen knows about Albert Cole, at least as the Vault Dweller whom the NCR claimed as one of their founding fathers. In addition to a few pages of his own recollections, written down in the final year of his life, we have not one but two published accounts of his adult life - one state-sponsored_ (1) _and one from his last surviving companion, Katja Larrson, following Cole's death in 2204._ (2) _Few people in this day and age get more than a single line to mark their passing: little more than two dates etched in stone (if they're wealthy), and sometimes not even that. That we have his own words in addition to his contemporaries' - not to mention the informal writings of his grandmother and great-grandmother - is a rare gift indeed. Still, we would like to add more to the picture with the records uncovered since that day._

 _Archivist Steele and I believe we can see the future of the man - and the legend he eventually became - in the disciplinary hearings recorded below, in the tense dialogue between a frustrated young man and a frightened old one. We find this portrait of the Vault Dweller to be a helpful foil to the patriotic hero described in school books and memorialized in the Capital's statuary. The NCR appropriated Albert Cole's reputation and made him into a yes-man for their fledgling empire, long after he had retreated from the public sphere to live out his life quietly in Arroyo; here, we push back on that reading of his life in favor of something less perfect, but more honest._

~ Introduction by Malachi Hendel; transcripts and notes below by Jamilyn Steele

* * *

(1) Cukrowski, Anton. _The Hero of the Wastes_. Angel's Boneyard, NCR: Adytum Press, 2196.

(2) Larsson, Katja. _The Man Behind the Myth (or, Albert, You Still Owe Me 50 Caps)._ Angel's Boneyard, NCR: FOTA Publications, 2206.

* * *

Before we introduce an adolescent Albert Cole, what of his mother, Joan Cole (née Brown)?

Regretfully, we can say little more about Marcia Brown's daughter than the Vault-Tec records themselves do. This renders her life down to the barest essentials, falling short even of the poetry of an epitaph. These are the facts:

1) She was born on July 4, 2104, the daughter of an unmarried mother in a community that tightly regulated reproduction.

2) After an unremarkable and uncontroversial school career, she was appointed to reactor maintenance, where she worked until her untimely death (of unknown causes) in early 2157.

3) She was married - on October 5, 2142, at the age of 38 - to widower Alfonse Cole, her senior by a decade, becoming a stepmother to his two teenage daughters.

4) Albert Cole, her only child, came almost a year later, on September 30, 2143. Due to advanced maternal age, his growth was closely monitored _in utero_ , with multiple scans for the age-linked chromosomal disorders that would have required termination under Vault-Tec protocols. He was born healthy.

To these skimpy details, we can add only a few observations: Joan lived with her single mother for the first thirty-eight years of her life, marrying very late by vault standards. Unlike her predecessors, she left no written record behind (or at least none that survived); we can speculate both that Marcia warned her against exposing herself to scrutiny, and - more tentatively - that the two of them found in each other a willing conversation partner for the thoughts they could not speak aloud elsewhere. Perhaps that is why Joan made no effort to impress herself upon history, or perhaps she found expression enough in the raising of her son.

In the chapter below, the reader will find three previously unpublished transcripts of selected interchanges between a young Albert Cole and Overseer Jacoren, along with various unnamed disciplinary committee members. Some of the timestamps on the tapes recovered were imprecise, and the dates on the first two are approximate; the hearings range from 2157 to 2161, the last dating from mere days before Albert left Vault 13. It should be noted, for the sake of context, that Marcia died in late 2156, followed just six months later by Joan, leaving Albert with no immediate family except his aging father (who died in 2160) and adult half-sisters.

A recurring thorn in the side of vault authorities, Albert Cole was subjected to more than just the three hearings recorded here. Anybody wishing to read all nine unabridged, fully-annotated transcripts (or any of the other primary sources referenced in this book) may submit their request to the resident archivist at Vault 13. Unfortunately, listening to these tapes is no longer possible, due to cumulative degradation from age and overuse.

 **Recording 1 (** _ **c**_ **. April 2157)**

SPEAKER A ( _male, unknown_ ): Albert, do you know why you're here today?

( _silence, static_ )

SPEAKER A: The silent act will get you nowhere, young man. Yesterday, you had an altercation-

ALBERT: ( _interrupting_ ) A discussion.

SPEAKER A: -an altercation with your teacher. Ms. Poirot said she feared for her safety. She says you raised your voice, you used profanity, and you approached her aggressively. What do you have to say for yourself?

ALBERT: She's exaggerating. I said "bullshit" and walked past her to the board to illustrate my point.

SPEAKER A: You frightened her, and you interrupted your classmates' education.

ALBERT: I wasn't trying to scare or distract anybody. She was _wrong_ about… oh fuck, it doesn't matter. Just suspend me. I'll take a week of kitchen duties over a week in the classroom.

SPEAKER B ( _female, unknown_ ): Language, young man.

OVERSEER JACOREN: You are not to challenge your teacher's authority, Mr. Cole. Is that clear? You will give her the respect her position deserves. If you wish to raise a question on a specific point, you may send her a private message via the intravault network.

ALBERT: No, I can't. She blocked me a month ago. Too many "impertinent messages," she said.

( _silence_ )

SPEAKER A: ( _wearily_ ) I'll approach Ms. Poirot about that. But Albert, see here, you need to keep a civil tongue in your head. Correct behavior is more important than a trivial point of geography or spelling-

ALBERT: ( _interrupting, angry_ ) Even math?

SPEAKER A: Even math. We're not training a generation of astrophysicists. You need to be able to budget your family's food and resource credits, to account for inventory in your department, and to measure ingredients or materials. If your eventual career requires more specialized training, you'll receive it in your apprenticeship.

ALBERT: ( _almost inaudible, defeated_ ) That's bullshit.

SPEAKER B: Language! What would your poor mother say?

ALBERT: She'd agree with me. She and grandma always said the official curriculum was garbage.

OVERSEER: ( _trying to be kind, though his patience is strained_ ) I know this is a hard time for you, Albert. Your grandmother's recent passing, following so quickly by... ahem... Dr. Gustavson told me this morning that he doesn't expect Joan to live out the week. It's very sad, but-

ALBERT: ( _defiantly_ ) He's wrong.

OVERSEER: ( _continuing as if he hadn't heard_ ) It's natural that you'd be acting out, though that doesn't mean- [ _Distortion on the tape lasting five seconds._ ] -leniency in light of the situation. Understand?

[ _silence_ ]

OVERSEER: ( _more firmly_ ) I _said_ , do you understand?

[ _muffled, unintelligible_ ]

Speaker B: ( _primly_ ) Look at us and speak up when you answer, boy.

Albert: Yes.

Speaker B: Yes _sir_.

Albert: Yessir. My mistake. I thought you were a lady.

Speaker A: ( _hastily_ ) This concludes educational hearing #1365 in the matter of Albert Cole and the aforementioned incident. Let's hope it's the last.

 **Recording 3 (2158)**

[ _Transcriber's note: the first 45 seconds was too degraded to play, thus we pick up_ in media res]

OVERSEER JACOREN: What in God's name were you thinking, boy? This… this… _jackblack_ of yours could have killed somebody. Ball bearings in a sock. That's very dangerous. You're lucky security happened along when it did. You could be facing murder charges otherwise.

ALBERT: It's a blackjack. A cosh. And I was only using it to defend myself and Stuyvesant. Edwards, Goodwin, and the others were lying in wait for us outside of the library. They deserved every bruise they got.

OVERSEER: ( _emphatically_ ) Vault-dwellers do not carry weapons. Unlike the world outside, we are civilized. We solve our problems with force of authority and _discussion_. What gave you the idea to make such a thing, anyway?

[ _inaudible mumbling_ ]

Speaker A ( _male, unknown_ ): ( _curiously_ ) What was that?

ALBERT: Uh, in the Silver Shroud, issue #37… the Red Menace… er, the bad guy has something like that.

OVERSEER: ( _disgusted_ ) Damned comic books. Our founders should have destroyed them when we first arrived. You'll make no more weapons, Mr. Cole, are we clear? We don't need them here.

ALBERT: ( _boldly_ ) They had numbers. They had their boots and their fists. I considered it an equalizer. Besides, vault security has weapons. Why shouldn't I? I've been pushed around enough to last a lifetime.

OVERSEER: I don't have to see next year's GOAT score to know that you have no future in vault security, Mr. Cole. Lay that idea aside, along with all plans to incite and escalate violent confrontation. [ _A long pause_.] Despite your grandmother's… shall we say, _reputation_ , your mother was always a model citizen. Not a single page in her record. I encourage you to reflect on her memory as you go forward. Try to be someone she could be proud of.

SPEAKER B ( _male, unknown_ ): ( _curtly_ ) Let's talk about consequences, Mr. Cole. You'll be serving three days of hard labor and spending three nights in the brig. You'll also be suspended from school for one month. A note on this incident goes in your record, but with good behavior it won't affect your future.

ALBERT: Fine. What about the others?

SPEAKER B: None of them introduced a deadly weapon into a schoolboy fracas. They'll each be suspended for one day, and they'll write lines - except for the one whose hand you broke, Mr. Cole. We consider him punished enough.

ALBERT: That wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that his name's "Jacoren," would it?

OVERSEER: That's enough, Mr. Cole! ( _softly_ ) Between you and me, young man, I salute your audacity and innovation. In another time and place, we might call on it. But it's high time that you accepted how your world actually works. It _is_ about politics. It _is_ about who you are and who you know. I strongly recommend that you learn your place and accept it. ( _To the others)_ Leave the room, please. Not you, Albert.

( _There's a scraping of chairs and the opening and shutting of a door_.)

OVERSEER: ( _cont._ ) Before I dismiss you as well, Mr. Cole, I have one last piece of advice for you. Something for you to study over all those days you're not in school. Look at the other troublemakers in our genealogies. The librarian will give you limited access to the backdated files. Look at their careers. Look at their average _lifespans_. And then you can decide for yourself if you really want to be the squeaky wheel in your generation. Are we clear?

ALBERT: Crystal-clear, Overseer. May I read my grandmother's file first? I always assumed there were a few things she never told me.

OVERSEER: ( _almost warmly_ ) It'll be at the top of the pile. Study it well.

 **Recording 9 (September 29, 2161)**

SPEAKER A (male, unknown): This is a emergency criminal hearing concerning Albert Cole's role in the unsuccessful uprising of September 20th, 2161, now nine days past. He has no advocate present-

ALBERT: I'm speaking for myself.

SPEAKER A: ( _cont._ ) -I repeat, no advocate present. He has been informed of the seriousness of these charges, namely sedition, incitement to violent acts, and sabotage. Possible sentences are six months' labor, followed by a probationary return to waste management, and… or… execution. There is no middle ground.

OVERSEER JACOREN: I just checked your file, Mr. Cole. You'll be 18 tomorrow, and one way or another, you'll be spending that day in a cell. Do you consider yourself a child or an adult?

ALBERT: An adult.

OVERSEER: That's good, because I'm tired of addressing you as a child. Do you remember what I told you when you were fourteen, right after you'd broken my son's hand with your thuggish toy?

ALBERT: Yes. You told me that I needed to get used to kowtowing to tyrants like you, or I'd live a short, meaningless life. In so many words.

( _There's a long pause. We can hear loud murmurs, whispers, rustling clothing - there are more than just a few people in the room this time._ )

ALBERT: ( _cont._ ) I reconsider my choice of words. They were unnecessarily hostile. You accurately described the world I lived in and that helped me decide that I couldn't accept things the way they were. Unlike so many others, I couldn't keep that refusal to myself either. A life spent hiding wasn't enough for me.

OVERSEER: I gave you a friendly piece of advice - a tip that your late parents never bothered to beat into you, it seems - in the hopes that you would see the error of your ways, and become the kind of dweller we need to survive. Instead, the past two and a half years have seen you brought up before our council for a series of petty crimes: insubordination in the classroom and on the job, fighting, and thievery. And now we have you in the dock for a capital offense. What possible reason can you give for the trajectory that your life has taken? For the waste of your potential?

ALBERT: ( _surprised_ ) You'd invite me to talk… in front of all of _them_? You won't censor me?

Speaker B ( _female, unknown_ ): Correct. You _are_ representing yourself. You can make your case now. No one will silence you.

ALBERT: That… assignment you gave me years ago, Overseer, opened my eyes. But not in the way that you hoped. Through unorthodox school papers, confiscated notes, and recordings of hearings like all the ones I've sat through in the past few years, I finally got to meet my people. I didn't feel alone anymore.

OVERSEER: You admit that you felt a kinship for those criminals and outcasts?

ALBERT: You could put it that way, yes. Reading those old records, I realized how many people kept their distress to themselves. It helped me recognize the same traits in the faces of the living, and so to seek them out. People weren't meant to live this way, packed like sardines in a hole in the ground. What you and your predecessors interpreted as rebellion was just a necessary release of built-up pressure. It's time we broke with tradition and took a gamble on the outside world. It can't be worse than this.

SPEAKER B: ( _above the sound of rustling papers_ ) Your four co-conspirators in custody have been named and examined already. Do you expect us to believe that none of you knew of Natalia Dubrovhsky's intentions to sabotage our water chip? In retaliation for yours and your partners' arrests, perhaps?

ALBERT: We knew that she had extreme views, of course, and even knew of her plans to escape the vault. We had no idea that she intended first to force the community's hand with the destruction of our way of life. If we had, we would have prevented her from doing so by any means possible. I've always believed in a gradual exodus, not one compelled by circumstances.

SPEAKER B: So, you maintain your innocence with regard to that charge. What of the others? Did you encourage others to subvert the intentions of the Overseer, and do so yourself?

ALBERT: Yes, insofar as disagreement counts as subversion. I am proudly guilty of that.

SPEAKER B: Did you access restricted information with the intent to distribute it?

ALBERT: Yes. I used a stolen code to access information that we needed, and that I felt we had every right to: environmental readings from our outside sensors, pre-war maps of the surface, survival guides, and hypothetical models of the lasting consequences of nuclear war. These gave our group the confidence to move forward with our intentions to present our plan to the community.

OVERSEER: But it didn't work out the way you expected, did it? No one moved. No one responded. No one raised a hand to prevent you from being taken into custody. Not your teachers, coworkers, or cousins. You were wrong about people secretly wanting what you had to offer.

ALBERT: Yes. It was… deeply disappointing. We thought frustration over the living situation would have trumped fear of reprisals and fear of the unknown. We overestimated the people. We moved too soon. Our impatience for change betrayed us.

OVERSEER: _You_ betrayed _us_. You refused to believe that you were an aberrant minority. You endangered the lives of every person in this vault. You-

( _Transcriber's note: Frustratingly, there's a long break in which nothing but garbled static can be heard for over ten minutes. We pick up at the closing statement._ )

SPEAKER A: …-of Mr. Cole's role as ringleader in the operation, and his persistent criminal inclinations, the lenient sentences awarded to Cindy and Peter Stuyvesant, Lucinda Brown, and Theresa Vasquez does not apply in his case. This council sentences him to a private execution in three days' time following a short grace period for reflection. He will be permitted no visitors. This hearing is concluded.

* * *

As a final addendum, the only additional intra-vault record we have of Albert Cole is an entry in Overseer Jacoren's personal log, indicating that his death sentence had been secretly commuted to exile, with proffered amnesty on the condition that he leave the vault to seek out a water chip in order to repair their broken purifier. The rest, as they say, is history.

This concludes the section of the book on the residents of Vault 13.


End file.
